Chapter 1

The wind cutting through the West Gate smelled of woodsmoke, unwashed bodies, and the copper tang of the tanneries. It was a thick, oily smell that clung to the back of Thomas’s throat, no matter how much cheap ale he drank off-duty.

Thomas adjusted his gorget, the cold steel biting into his neck. The curfew bell had just finished tolling its twelve mournful notes. The streets of Varen’s Hold were emptying, the citizens scurrying into their timber-framed tenements like rats fleeing a rising tide.

"Quiet night," muttered Garett, the younger guard leaning on his halberd. He spat into the mud. "They say the Hunters burned a nest of three in the lower market this morning."

Thomas didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on the cobblestone road leading into the dark heart of the city. "Keep your eyes on the dark, Garett. Talk less."

"Just saying," Garett grumbled. "Beast curse is spreading. My cousin says it’s in the water."

"It’s in the blood," Thomas said automatically.

He saw the movement in the shadows of the apothecary’s overhang before he saw the person. A figure stumbled into the torchlight, wrapped in a coarse gray shawl. She moved with a jerky, frantic gait, hugging the walls.

Thomas felt his heart slam against his ribs. He knew that walk.

"Halt!" Garett straightened, lowering his halberd. "Curfew is past. Identify yourself."

The woman looked up. Her face was pale, glistening with a fever-sweat that plastered strands of dark hair to her forehead. Her eyes were wide, the pupils blown so large they swallowed the iris.

"Isolde," Thomas breathed.

He stepped forward, pushing Garett’s weapon aside. "It’s alright. I know her."

Isolde didn't speak. She lurched toward him, gripping his gauntleted forearm. Her hands were burning hot, shaking so violently that Thomas could feel the vibration through the steel.

"Thomas," she rasped. Her voice sounded wrong—wet and grinding, as if her throat was filled with gravel. "The gate. Please."

"You know I can't," Thomas hissed, leaning in close so Garett wouldn't hear. "The Captain has the key. What are you doing here? You should be home."

"Not home," she whimpered, clutching her stomach. A spasm racked her small frame, doubling her over. "It’s... it’s fast, Thomas. Faster than the physician said. The moon... I can feel it pulling my teeth."

Thomas looked up at the sky. The clouds were parting, revealing the Hunter Moon—full, bloated, and sickly yellow.

"Oh god," Thomas whispered.

"Is she drunk?" Garett asked, stepping closer, suspicious now. "She looks sick, Thomas. You know the protocol for fever."

Thomas looked at Isolde. He saw the way her jaw was trembling, the way her fingernails were digging into the leather of his bracer, threatening to tear. If she stayed here, the Wolf Hunters would find her. They would drag her to the square and burn her before she even fully turned.

"She’s not drunk," Thomas lied, his voice flat. "It’s the ague. I’m taking her to the triage tent."

"That’s against orders," Garett warned. "You can't leave your post."

Thomas turned, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He didn't draw it, but the threat was there, heavy and silent. "I am taking her. Watch the gate, Garett. Or I’ll tell the Captain about the silver you’ve been skimming from the toll box."

Garett paled. He stepped back into the shadows. "Go. Just... be quick."

Thomas didn't wait. He wrapped his arm around Isolde’s waist, taking her weight, and dragged her away from the gate. But he didn't head for the triage tents. He turned sharp left, into the dark mouth of Tanner’s Alley.

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